


I am the Moon

by LittleMissMolly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Broken Sam Winchester, Community: spn-masquerade, Control, Dark, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Demon Blood Addiction, Demon Dean Winchester, Demons, Heartbreaking, Hell, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Music, M/M, Manipulation, Watch Sam Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 10:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16157387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissMolly/pseuds/LittleMissMolly
Summary: Based on the SPN Masquerade prompt:Something based on this gorgeous song:"I am the Moon", by the white buffalo. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gt2SDbXoQ5g)MAKE MY HEART ACHE. Don't care who tops or bottoms, or even if there's The Sex at all. Just break me.





	I am the Moon

When Sam saw Dean’s eyes go black in the bunker as Sam had his blade to Dean’s neck, he went lightheaded. Sam felt the old tug of the scent of demon blood; where there should have been anger, rage, betrayal, Sam felt need, broken off in his throat like the shattered edge of fractured bone.

Sam didn’t want to know the story behind those black eyes. He didn’t want to know how Dean had gotten here. Sam knew with every fiber of his being that he should feel repulsion; his brother was the monster they had hunted so frequently—but he felt nothing but the old addict ache. The blade had slipped just enough that a sliver of blood was draining down Dean’s neck. Sam’s eyes were drawn there, unable to look away. With a prideful smirk, Dean laughed, a rumbling, knowing sound. 

Dean, like Sam, knew they would always come back here. There was no escaping addiction, no matter what some fool with a book of steps and prayers might tell you. Ignore the man with the meetings and the therapy; there was no cure. Perhaps Sam could overcome the demon blood addiction, maybe he had once. But Dean knew Sam could never recover from his addiction to him. Sam, who so wanted to be good, running to Stanford and trying to be some bright light to the world. Sam, always wanting to help those who couldn’t help themselves. Good, sweet, bright and shiny Sam. Sam, who could not give up his brother, no matter how many ways Dean might try to push him away. 

Sam’s eyes remain on the blood dripping from the edge of his blade. Sam exhales sharply, pulling his eyes from his brother’s throat. Sweat beads on the high planes of his forehead and Dean can sense his weakness. It runs through his veins like victory, hot and burning bright.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean croons, “Wanna give it a try, just for old time’s sake?” Patiently, Dean waits for his brother to break, knowing it will come. 

Dean knows his brother like he knows his guns. They’re a pair of Jacks in a deck, Sam and Dean, cut from the same cloth. But Sam, oh, sweet Sam, he always wanted to be so much more. He wanted life to mean something, and Dean, Dean knew that wasn’t how things worked. You spend long enough on the rack in Hell, you torture enough souls, you go through enough loss, and you realize it’s just about surviving. Dean has always come back from death seeking his brother. He follows him like the moon follows the sun, needing his light to shine. Dean lives off his brother; loves him, but can never cease in his seeking of him. 

With a near-sick enjoyment, Dean watches Sam’s brain work, nearly knows what he is thinking. Oh, dear Sam. He wants so badly to be good. But it only takes a little work to fray his seams and unravel him totally. 

Dean sees the moment he breaks and it is beautiful: the hard, shining want in Sam’s eyes finally eclipses ever-present concern. Sam pulls the blade from Dean’s throat and leans over his brother’s neck, having to bend to fit his lips to the rivulet there. When Sam bends, Dean can smell the clean scent of his shampoo, and underneath that, the smell of desperation coming off Sam’s skin like sweat. Dean fists his hand in the back of Sam’s plaid shirt and pulls him closer. His cock is growing hard in his pants as Sam sucks desperately at his throat. 

“Want more, Sammy?” Dean whispers in Sam’s ear. Sam nods, and hums plaintively. Dean prizes the blade from Sam’s hand and steps back, his erection completely unconcealed in his jeans. Dean sees Sam’s eyes glance at his cock and a smirk paints his lips. With a quick motion, Dean runs the blade over his forearm and offers the sliced arm to Sam. Sam falls to his knees as if in prayer, pulling Dean’s arm to his mouth to drink. As Sam drinks from him, Dean drinks in his desperate need. Sam is his to break, his to mold, his to hold. 

“Good boy,” Dean croons, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair and tugging gently. Sam whimpers from below him and it shoots straight to Dean’s cock; he’s hard enough to pound stakes beneath the denim of his jeans. 

Sam looks up from his bleeding arm, his face a mess of blood and inner turmoil. 

“Dean,” the word is a request, thick in Sam’s throat, the closest thing to begging Dean’s ever seen Sam do. Sam, on his knees like a mendicant, Dean’s name a prayer on his lips: a prayer for forgiveness and a prayer for more. 

“Yes, Sammy?” Dean coos, cupping Sam’s cheek, running his thumb over the hunger-sharp blade of his cheekbone. 

“Please, Dean, don’t make me give it up this time,” The words are music to Dean’s ears. Years of chasing Sam, years of seeking his light, trying to be good like him, all of it has come to a sudden stop. He has Sam, broken in his hands. And he will mend him, in time. But right now, he wants to hold sweet, broken Sammy and get what he wants. 

“Never,” Dean tells Sam, nearly a growl in his throat. “I want you, Sam.” The hand on Sam’s jaw turns from caress to grip and Dean moves his thumb from his cheekbone to dig inside the bloody mess of Sam’s lips. “I want this mouth, I want that cock, I want you Sam.” 

Sam groans, the sound vibrating along Dean’s thumb. “Please, Dean.” Dean apples pressure to the fingers around Sam’s jaw and encourages him to stand. When Sam reaches his full height, Dean pulls his fingers from Sam’s mouth, his hand a mess of blood and saliva, and crushes his lips to his brother’s, all teeth and tongue, no mercy. 

Sam’s hands fumble with the button and the zip of Dean’s jeans as their lips crash together again. There is desperation coming off him like sweat, and Dean can smell it. It fills his lungs like tobacco smoke, that vice he used to love when he would be five or six drinks in. Once you’ve been to Hell, smoking pales in comparison to the thrill of the screams of someone on the rack. He enjoyed the pop of the patellar tendons under his fingers, the stone-like quality of the kneecap in his palm. 

But nothing: not liquor, not cigarettes, not even his first hit of coke, something he tried when Sam was at Stanford, compares to Sam’s need. There is nothing more beautiful than his shaking, hungry hands, his wide hazel eyes that look like there is prayer still alive behind them. 

“On your knees,” Dean commands, and it’s like heroin when Sam crumbles. Dean is high and getting higher. He undoes his fly for Sam, and pulls his cock out. Sam runs a timid tongue along his lips, brushing away the slick of blood that had been left there. 

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean murmurs. Sam is worshipful as he leans forward, taking Dean’s flesh in his mouth, running his tongue along the vein that lives on the underside of Dean’s cock. Dean realizes, with mild surprise, that Sam has done this before. Part of him wants to know when and where; the other part fears he might not enjoy the answer. 

Sam lifts his hand to grasp the base of Dean’s length, running his tongue expertly around the head, dipping back down for more, developing a rhythm as he becomes more sure of himself. Sam’s fingers drift to Dean’s balls and Dean offers him a groan of appreciation when he does so. With a grunt, Dean fists his hands in Sam’s hair, gripping tight, urging Sam to take more, pushing his own rhythm, lost in the heat of Sam’s mouth and the depths of his addiction, returned so soon. Dean is damn near the back of Sam’s throat and Sam is eager for it, making his own satisfied noises, and Dean can see he is hard and full in his pants. 

Dean watches as Sam falls from grace, watches his addiction take him over. Oh, and how mighty he had been his whole life. Dean revels in it, closes his eyes and dips his head back, thrusting without end into Sam’s mouth. And it is that moment, the moment he realizes the brother he has chased for so long belongs solely to him, that he comes. He hold’s Sam’s head close as he does, feels his nose in the curls at the base of his cock and revels in the feel of Sam’s skin against his. It took so many years. It took losing everything he thought he know. But finally, Sam was his, to break, to rebuild, to possess. Dean pulls his cock from Sam’s hungry mouth and runs his thumb along Sam’s upper lip. There is much to be done.


End file.
